


Sluts Die First, or The Sorting Algorithm of Mortality

by MementoMoriMe



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, The Opposite of the Final Girl Trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-23 06:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MementoMoriMe/pseuds/MementoMoriMe
Summary: There's a fat ass in the Entity's realm and Meg wants a piece of it. (MegMillan but it tackles the ethics of lusting after a slasher.)
Relationships: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Meg Thomas
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's some debate within the community about whether or not shipping killers with survivors is ethical. I'm of the opinion that it can be non-abusive when it's treated responsibly. For general warnings, please see the end notes.

Meg sat squatting in a tall bunch of crabgrass, hiding behind one of the many random piles of crap that littered the murder arena. She thought she was clever. In actuality, she was being an absolute dipshit with priorities in completely the wrong fucking order, because what she was doing now was not smart in the fucking slightest. 

She was staring at the Trapper’s caked up ass as he bent over to set one of his awful little bear traps. Because she obviously had nothing better to do. His overalls hugged his cheeks while he grunted over his work and Meg inhaled deeply, biting her lip at the sight.

_ I am a bisexual nightmare,  _ Meg had the clarity to think as the lumbering murderer straightened up and strode off intently in the direction of a loud bang. Dwight had probably crossed the wrong wires on a generator, or something.  _ If my mom was here she would be so disappointed in me and then I would cry because I miss her so much. Goddamnit, I made myself sad.  _

Having thoroughly shamed herself and succeeded in knocking herself out of horndog mode and into a more appropriate melancholy, Meg stood up as much as she dared and started creeping off towards where she thought a power generator was, now actually minding the clumps of grass and shadows for the sharp edges of terrible metal.

Off in the distance, a snap cracked through the air and Dwight wailed. 

* * *

“I’m getting real sick of that Krueger motherfucker,” Jake announced one evening (it was always evening) as he plopped down next to the fire, jaw jutted and brows furrowed. 

“You and me both,” Quentin had the humor to comment back with a snort through his nose. “What did he do this time? Or do I not want to know?”

“Oh you know, the classic  _ ‘naked in school’  _ bullshit I haven't dreamt since college.” Jake continued to grouse as Kate took a seat next to him, looking weary in her own way. 

“Was he the hall monitor?” Tapp asked, only mildly interested as Ace dealt him, Ash, and Bill cards.

“Nah, janitor. Stabbed me with a mop. I swear to god, he shouldn't be able to hit me from so far away.”

“‘Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear’,” Yui quipped dryly, currently splayed out against a log, one leg kicked out under Nea crooked knee as the swede snored unhindered beside her. She had conked out immediately after the last trial, Freddy be damned. The poor woman had been in trial after trial for what seemed like days and when she finally caught a break she fucking ran with it. 

Quentin huffed something like a laugh and shrugs lightly, smiling tiredly at Jake before looking back at the fire, and Meg notices, not for the first time, how dark the bags under his eyes are. He and Laurie were the youngest currently, and even though they were only a few years apart in age, she couldn't help but feel for the highschoolers. (Especially Laurie, poor girl had been plucked straight from the 70’s and was stuck in high waisted bell bottoms for eternity.)

“It’s around the time for someone new to show up, isn’t it?” Dwight asked suddenly, lifting his head from the pile of leaves he had been using as a pillow. It was funny to see him laying on the ground when he was in his pizza boy get up. But Meg had worked retail, she got it. 

“Roughly,” Bill muttered gruffly through a cigarette. He liked lifting them from Gas Heaven, he said it didn't matter if he smoked at his age and he was already in hell, anyway. The veteran peered up at the sky briefly, as if he could tell the time from the constant full moon hiding behind the fog, then turned his attention back to the card game at hand. “Might be another week or two, but keep your eyes peeled.”

“What kind of killer do you think we’ll get this time?” Feng asked idly from her spot.

Adam was next to her and writing in his journal, but the question prompted him to set it down and think aloud, “Hopefully not another half-formed man-baby. I’ve gotten used to a lot of nonsense here, but I don't think  _ that _ one will ever be normal.”

Both Bill and Ash raise their eyes from their game to exchange knowing glances at each other, Tapp notices it and only snorts. 

“I bet it’ll be some sort of axe murderer,” Meg takes a shot, pantomiming that one scene from  _ The Shining _ . 

“You mean like the Huntress?” Feng laughs, crossing her arms over her chest. “No, no. They will have to be something wild, maybe another alien or a mummy. Watch, it’ll be another dead person pissed off about some white guy defiling their grave.”

And again, the old men share slight looks.

Ace lets out his own charming little chuckle of a laugh and slides his shades down just enough to glance around the campfire, “So we’ve got a wager on  _ Jack Torrance _ and  _ Imhotep _ , anyone else want to place a bet? I’ll put a shiny coin down on the  _ Blob _ and double it if anyone wants to bet on  _ Audrey II _ .”

“Jesus Christ and Mother Mary,” Kate finally cracks, dropping her head on Jake’s shoulder with a reluctant grin, the fire glistening in her eyes. “Fuck it, put me down for  _ Jason _ , I’ll wager my sport flashlight.”

Feng and Meg both let out their own sounds of encouragement and Jake actually barks out a laugh. From the other side of the fire, Ash lays down his cards and Tapp swears under his breath, certain that the man is a cheat. 

“Could you even imagine Imhotep though,” Dwight shuddered in his lead bed, gagging as he pushes up his glasses. “That bug scene scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. I’d rather deal with the Pig than beetles under my skin.”

“But that was like the funniest part of the movie,” Meg countered as she tossed a pebble at Dwight, which hit him squarely in the chest to no real harm. 

“One of these days I’ll understand half the things you people say,” Laurie sighed as she poked at the fire with a stick, looking almost as tired as Quentin.

“Fuck, that’s right,” Jake said as he rubbed his chin. “ _ The Shining _ doesn't come out for another four years for you, Laurie. What the hell did you guys even watch in the 70’s?”

“A whole lot of horseshit,” Bill interjected.

“The last movie I saw before I woke up here was  _ The Thing _ ,” Laurie said as she regarded the older man oddly.

“That’s by the same guy who directed your movie,” Meg mentioned with a finger gun at the blonde. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re a cult classic and the original scream queen. Final girls wish they were you.”

“I wouldn't want anyone to be. I’m not even sure I want to be me. But thanks, I guess. I wish any of this made any sense.”

“I still don’t want to believe that crock,” Bill spoke up again, fixing his bushy-browed gaze in Feng’s direction. “If you hadn’t told me what you did about my pals, I'd have a few choice words for your mother about your upbringing.”

“Hey now, don’t be mad at the kid because she’s right,” Ash piped up, scoffing at the vet with his puppet hand like some sort of weirdo. “You know how these sort of things go, don'tcha? You can only get snatched up by a giant interdimensional being so many times before it’s on you.”

“What in the goddamn hell are you saying?” Bill almost barked back while Tapp rubbed his face, exhausted with the current flow of conversation. 

Another interjection, this time from Meg spouting off more pop culture bullshit, “ _ Ye best start believin’ in ghost stories, Miss Turner. Yer in one! _ ”

A chorus of groans and a few short snorts sounded out from a good portion of the group, startling Nea awake as Dwight pelted Meg with an acorn. 

“You know what? Thank god It stopped bringing in college students, I think I'd go insane from anymore of you damn kids before  _ Freddy _ fucking  _ Krueger _ got to me.” Tapp slapped down his cards and waved off Ace when the other man tried to peek at the facedown hand. 

“Your movie did great too, Tapp.” Meg added kindly, grinning mischievously at the retired detective. “And come on, it would be boring if we were all a bunch of respectable thirty year olds with careers. No offense to those of us here who are, of course.”

Kate just flicked her hand as representation of the 30-somethings that weren't present, “None taken. At least you’re funny sometimes.”

Adam just ignored the jab. 

“You’d be a lot funnier if half the shit you kids said made any goddamn sense,” Bill fussed as Ace gathered the pile of winnings, a small stack of various offerings. 

“The future is now, old man,” Meg delivered wryly while Jake let out a snort and Feng clapped once in amusement. 

“You are the rudest lot of cunts this side of hell,” David commented loudly as he strode back to the campfire, shirtless. Like he often did. Yui nodded drowsily and the old men playing poker murmured their agreements. 

“But you love us,” Meg purred.

“Lucky for you,” Adam shot back this time.

The group settled in for the night, talking amongst themselves and keeping themselves entertained as friends rejoined and left in an endless cycle. 

* * *

_ Vapid  _ wasn’t a word that anyone had earnestly described her as at any point in her life. Meg had always been a jock and never a cheerleader, less  _ Mean Girls  _ and way more  _ Friday Night Lights _ . But as she fussed over her clothes, the ginger couldn't help but worry that it was vain of her to spend this long trying to figure out which pair of pants her ass looked best in. There wasn't even anyone here to judge her other than the crows and the fog. 

Sighing heavily with guilt, Meg tossed the pair of stretchy leggings over her shoulder and reached for her trusty basketball shorts, figuring that she probably shouldn't be so worried about her looks when freaks like Freddy fucking Krueger was a very real threat in this nightmare hell. Yeah, she looked good, but maybe advertising it to a bunch of megalomaniacs wasn't the best idea. Something told her the Trapper wasn’t super into her style anyway. 

Her jersey was easier to run in, on top of that. 

“Next time you decide to play dress up with us, could I get a pair of cleats? Metal ones, obviously. That would be super helpful,” Meg conversed with the nearest crow who sat perched in one of the endless trees, watching her with beady little eyes that seemed to judge her explicitly.

Meg threw her vest at the bird with a derisive snort, muttering on in her one sided conversation as she pulled on her other top, “You can’t blame me for asking. Weirdo.”

Nothing in this place made much sense and the rules were so arbitrary it was worthless to ask  _ why.  _ Among the list of inexplicable nonsense was the small wardrobes everyone had access to, filled with clothing they had either worn in their real world or had never seen before. (Some more than others, but still.)

Even the killers seemed to have the same sort of access, the survivors had noticed. It had originally come as a shock, but eventually they all got used to being chased around by the Nurse with a pumpkin on her head or the Wraith wearing a ridiculous three-piece suit. 

But no one would  _ ever  _ grow to accept the Clown’s fur suit. They all hated it. Meg was sure that the other killers had to hate it too. 

“Why you gave him that fucking thing, I’ll never know. But fuck you for that _ specifically _ ,” Meg pointed to the crow suddenly in the middle of pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Nevermind that she was pretty sure the crows couldn't read minds. Probably. 

Well, she was dressed now. After giving the bird the bird, Meg walked out of her little corner of the fog and back to the campfire, kicking up dead leaves as she returned.

Elodie and Felix were seated on the far end of the circle of logs surrounding the fire, looking grim and somber as they spoke between themselves in hushed whispers. They talked like that a lot, but so did Steve and Nancy. Meg supposed if she had known any of the people here from  _ before _ then she would probably have secret little conversations too, but honestly, she was glad that she didn't have to see anyone she cared about here. As much as she tried to stay optimistic, she didn't think she could handle something like that. 

She shoved those thoughts away before any of the crows could pick up on her brainwaves and get any nasty little ideas.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” She asked cheerily as she plopped down next to Claudette at the fire, peering at the bundle of flowers the quiet botanist was weaving into a flower crown. She and Claudette had been a thing, previously. For a short amount of time. It had been a wild ride, but they had ended up settling down on being besties who kissed each other goodbye instead of full on girlfriends who rolled around in the forest like wild animals. Mostly because Claudette was way more reserved than Meg and neither of them could really deal with trying to date while they were both hunted for sport on a regular basis. It was just nice to be close to each other and hug when they needed it. 

“I’m making a flower crown out of these dandelions,” Claudette answered with a smile, not looking up from her work. “They’re sticky, but nutritious.”

“Are you really out here eating dandelions?” Meg teased. “I know you miss food, but there has to be a better option.”

“I’m not eating them!” Claudette responded with genuine bemusement. “I was just letting you know in case it might be helpful. You never know!”

“What I want to know is if the fire will take it,” the redhead wondered aloud. “And what it would do if it did.”

“I’ve already tried it,” she replied with a sigh. “It didn't want it. I think it only wants things that meant something before being here. That’s just a theory, though. I don’t know for sure, and there’s not really a way to check. All I know is that the flowers it  _ does  _ like have meanings.”

Meg raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in silent questioning. Claudette got the idea and continued on. “Take for instance these flowers,” the botanist explained as she sat aside her dandelions and held up a small bundle of little pink and red flowers. “Sweet william,  _ Dianthus barbatus.  _ These symbolize gallantry, or boldness. Among the other flowers the fire takes, primroses could be tied to the Victorian flower language as ‘I can’t live without you’, amaranth as ‘immortality’. But bog laurel… Bog laurel doesn't have formal symbolism as far as I know, but they grow in poor soil and often kill livestock. It could mean survival in a bad environment or an omen of death.”

“I feel like everything here is an omen of death,” Meg remarked dryly, earning another sigh from Claudette.

“Yeah, I feel like that too. But since the flowers have traditional meanings, just like coins and white oak, that’s why I think the fire will take them.”

“You know those kerchiefs we use? The ones with knots in the corners? I think that’s some sort of paganism, so you’re probably right.” Meg rested her hands behind her head, one leg propped up on the bent knee of her other. “I wonder what all the chalk means.”

“It might have a meaning in some other cultures,” Claudette said with a shrug, taking up her flower crown again. She twisted the hollow stems into loops and slid the blossoms in place, bright yellow flowers nestled snugly together. They looked like little wafers of sunshine in the ever-present twilight.

“Probably,” Meg conceded, not really too invested. “Maybe we’ll figure it all out one of these days, huh?”

“I’d like that,” Morel nodded as she tied off the last flower. She leaned over to deposit the crown upon Meg’s head. “Dandelions mean overcoming hardship. I want to make one of these for everyone. Maybe it’ll help.”

“It’s already helping, you big, beautiful mushroom!” Meg sat up and cupped Claudette’s face to press a loud kiss to her cheek. “What would we ever do without you, Claude.”

“You all would make it just fine without me, but I’m glad you like it.”

“I  _ love  _ it. And you’re wrong. We would die so much and all of the time without you and your smart brain. Not that I think you deserve to be here, but you are definitely the best person to be stuck in hell with.”

Meg grinned widely as the Canadian flushed in shy embarrassment, hiding her face behind her sticky hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Fog billowed away like a gasp of a dying man and Meg found herself standing in the dark midst of the MacMillan Estate. They had gone over theories and thoughts at the campfire, assigning killers to places that formed in the Fog; this place they had all agreed felt like it belonged to the Trapper and the way he stalked these grounds like he owned the place seemed only to verify that line of thought. Despite knowing that killers didn’t always appear in their home arenas, she couldn't help but feel a little hopeful that he would be their tormentor this time around.

She really embarrassed herself by thinking like this.

Rubbing away the faint blush that had risen to her cheeks, Meg shuffled as quietly as she could through the overgrowth. A flickering light up ahead meant a generator was waiting for her, but a dark shadow in the middle distance demanded her immediate attention. Crouching behind a pile of discarded crap, she peered cautiously from her hiding spot to discern what they were up against.

Visible, so not the Wraith. Not drowsy, so not the Nightmare. Too big to be the Shroud, not big enough to be the Oni. No humming, so obviously not the Huntress.

It was when the tall figure bends over at the hip that Meg’s heart skips a beat for all the wrong reasons.

It was _him_. 

Smiling like a little shit, Meg took note of where his trap had been laid. When he straightens up again and trudges off deep into the sparse woods, she walks slowly over to where she thinks the trap is and, after sidestepping every clump of grass, she finds the evil contraption hidden expertly in the middle of a dark choke point. 

Careful. _Careful._

After so long being here, a person learns a few things, one of which being how to trigger a bear trap without losing your hand. 

**_Snap!_ **

The trap closes on nothing and Meg does her best White-Girl-Crossing-The-Street jog off in the opposite direction, wheezing quietly under her breath with delight. It was the little things that brought joy sometimes. She dives behind a pile of lumber just in time to hear her heart pulse threateningly in her eardrums and watch as the Trapper glances around, finds nothing, then bends down to retrieve his trap. Still looking around for the culprit, he finds another spot and repositions the trap there, once more sweeping the area before he stomps off towards a more active area of the estate. 

_Hate to see you go but love to watch you leave._

Meg, still smiling, sighed as she watched the giant of a man disappear into the Fog, admiring his ass for that brief second it was in view. Honestly, as far as the killers went, her libido could have picked worse. 

Considering the life choices she made to get to this point, Meg stole over to the new patch of grass that hid the replaced trap.

The Trapper could be cruel, but all of the killers were at times. Also like most of the killers, there were rare times when humanity snuck through. Meg thought that she first caught an interest in the bulky man when they had crossed paths some time back, they had locked eyes briefly and simply stared at each other, both unmoving for what felt like an eternity. It had been like meeting the gaze of a wild animal and being so acutely aware of the being staring straight back at you. But unlike a stray cat or a startled doe, the Trapper had looked at her with a silent intelligence that for once, held no ill will.

She remembered that moment because when she had blinked, he turned his back on her and left to hunt someone else. She had made it out of that trial alive.

Since then, she had taken a shining to the masked man, watching him from a safe distance or inwardly feeling a horrible, ridiculous delight when he would throw her over his shoulder and carry her around. The parts where he hit her with a big cleaver and stuck her on a meat hook was still not great, but she got what she could. 

_Maybe this is Stockholm syndrome or something,_ she thought to herself as she set the trap off again, scurrying off to safety before he could catch sight of her. _If I ever get out of here I am going to need_ so _much therapy._

Regardless, it was fun to take this entire thing way less seriously than she should. It had been exhausting to run at 100% survival mode all the time before and it had become easier to think of it all as a game. A horrible, fucked up, _awful_ game, but still a game. Kind of like the Meat Plant, but actually somewhat enjoyable at times. 

Times like now!

Peeking from around a corner, Meg held her hand over her mouth as she grinned deviously, overjoyed to see the Trapper had returned to investigate. When he retrieved the trap this time, he stood up and still, studying his surroundings with a slow, sweeping gaze. As he turned to face in her direction, Meg ducked behind the old brick wall currently hiding her and dropped to the ground, squatting as she struggled to breathe silently. After managing to stifle the ugly sounds of muffled laughter and snorting, the redhead dared to get to her feet and peek as the pounding sound of her heartbeat quieted down and faded away.

_Once more, with feeling!_

Picking her way back to where the Trapper had been the last time she saw him, Meg thought about how silly it was that he was playing along with her. It was a bad choice on his part to devote so much time to resetting his traps when she kept disarming them, but then again, she was wasting time doing this and not working on a generator.

The trap had been placed not too far from where she had expected it, tucked away in a sharp corner by a pallet, right where someone would run into it if they were in a chase. Cracking her knuckles with all the melodrama she had in her, Meg stooped over the trap, wriggled her fingers, and skillfully tapped the trigger plate without losing any fingers in the process. 

The second the trap snapped shut, the faint drum of her heart beat picked back up, warning her of the killer’s presence. Her grin returned in full force as she hopped up and darted back the way she had come. And fucking that’s exactly when she steps ankle deep into a trap stuffed cleverly out of sight in between two clusters of useless garbage.

The scream Meg let out was one of outrage and surprise, rather than a usual scream of outright pain and fear. (Well, she was still screaming because of the pain, but also because _how fucking dare he?_ )

The heartbeat grew louder and Meg began to laugh, dragging her hands down her beet red face instead of trying to struggle free. Momentarily defeated, she decided to take back control of the situation by the sheer force of her determination. By which I mean, she propped herself on her side as best she could without moving her trapped ankle, posing like an old timey pin-up girl but without any of the glamor or makeup. She had the confidence, though. Not even hell could take that from her. 

The Trapper came into view just about when Meg had made herself as comfortable and sexy as she possibly could while wearing a tattered hoodie and with a foot caught in a motherfucking _bear trap._ He got with in four yards of his prey before he came to a sudden halt, very clearly bewildered at what was greeting him. 

“Come here often, handsome?” Meg’s voice had cracked halfway through her sentence from a combination of both fresh glee and familiar pain, but she sold it as best she could, giving her hunter her best shiteating grin.

His response to her nonsense was to stare for a solid five seconds before encroaching upon her, his mask obscuring any emotion he might have been feeling. Meg let out what could only be described as a squawk as the Trapper grabbed her by the nape of the neck and held her in place as he freed her from his trap, only to yank her up with one hand and effortlessly throw her over his shoulder. Despite his earlier befuddlement, it was business as usual for him. 

“Aww, you're no fun,” Meg sighed her complaint, not bothering to struggle as he toted her around as he pleased. Still, it was nice to feel his bigass hand on her lower back, it was warm and steady, it distracted her from the throbbing in her leg. Turning as best she could towards her hulking captor, Meg teased playfully as she wound a braid around her index finger, “Hold me closer, won’t you?”

Predictably, she got no reaction from the killer, only a few more heavy steps and a grunt as he slammed her down on a sacrificial hook. Also predictably, she screamed.

The rest of that match panned out as normal, the only added difference being that Meg would pose suggestively at the Trapper any time she caught his attention. She ended up dying first because of her antics, but she had fun, so she was the real winner here, obviously. 

* * *

_What an odd match._

Trapper stood on top of a mound of dirt, wiping the blood from his cleaver over the flesh of his forearm as he surveyed his cursed domain. Out of the four intended sacrifices, only three had been completed. Each had been hooked thrice sans the one who had gotten away, the slight foreign woman with the long, bleached hair. The black lock continued to be a nuisance in his life. 

But his thoughts strayed from his successes and failure, returning to the earlier nonsense that had befuddled him then and still confounded him now. 

_What an odd woman._

Idiotic, too. What sort of fool would attempt to proposition a mask-wearing, weapon-wielding mass murderer? It had to have been some ploy to bargain for her life. Well, she had seen how that would work out for her. Nothing could bend Evan’s will so easily, even the Entity still struggled to control him. 

But what in hell’s name had gotten into that girl? She had always been peculiar, but her behavior as of late was far bolder than it had been in the past.

Tired from his work, MacMillian dug the blade of his cleaver into the dry dirt, pulling off his mask as he took a heavy seat on the sad knoll. Hands stained with blood rubbed down his face, he rolled his shoulders and his neck, winding down after the hunt. The mask of bone and evil grin was hung from the hilt of his knife, forsaken for the moment. 

The Fog had receded, if only slightly. It had been fed well enough, therefore it was sated and pleased with him, though if only for a short time. It wouldn't be long before another round of the endless game began again and he would have to slaughter once more. 

He wondered if he would see the redhead again. 

As infuriating and irritating as the runner was, that odd string of interaction had been the most excitement he had encountered since the last Hallowed Blight. Unlike the sickly, glistening flowers and blinding rage, her touch of out-of-the-ordinary had been somewhat closer to the general idea of enjoyable.

It had been a long time since anyone had looked upon him with something other than fear or hatred. Longer still since a woman had taken interest in him.

Time had no meaning here, but he knew it must have been years. It had felt like an eternity to him since he had first been called here, he felt that much. The sacrifices that came these days were so different from what he had considered normal, their fashion, their way of speech, they were all foreign to him, even if he understood their words or recognized their culture in part.

The woman who had taken it upon herself to personally aggravate the living hell out of him was the strangest to him at the moment. What had possessed her to act like a cat in heat? The women didn’t have cycles here, did they? Certainly not, he would think. He wasn’t about to go ask any of the womanly killers about it, god forbid. 

So he puzzled over it. If the woman had not struggled against him when caught, then perhaps it hadn’t been an escape strategy. Given the fact that he was deathly sure there was nothing influencing reproductive cycles in this tartarus, he was forced to consider that whatever suicidal attraction the daft girl had for him was some degree of genuine.

And what the ever-living _fuck_ was he supposed to do with that information?

Evan MacMillan rubbed his face again, weary from this hell he was damned to endlessly roam.

He would see if the woman continued with her behavior, or if the past round had been a freakish mishap.

And if she did, well… He supposed he could start paying better attention. 

* * *

Meg’s leg bounced ceaselessly as she sat at the fire, energy overflowing. She was ready for a trial _now_ , but the stupid spider bitch in the sky wasn’t drawing her straw. It was probably a weird thing to be eager for, but there were only so many laps she could run around the safety of the camp before she would go insane from boredom. At least in the trials she had something to do with her hands and legs and freaking brain. There was nothing to do at the campfire but talk and sleep or poking around in the nearby woods for something to offer to the fire. 

Her messing around lately meant that It wasn’t happy with her and therefore she found less knickknacks in the Fog. 

But hey, at least she was having fun.

Other than the Trapper, she had taken to (platonically?) tormenting some of the other (marginally) less sadistic killers. The Legion had been fun if only because they were exactly the kind of social outcasts that she could have picked on in highschool. The edgelord that seemed to be their leader was particularly great to irritate if only because he was the one most committed to his role as a shitty little serial killer. 

She fiddled idly with the mask she’d pushed up to sit on top of her head. 

For some reason, the Fog had deemed her worthy of her own mask, something that it had only given to killers prior. Honestly she thought the mask was kind of cool, but the other survivors weren’t fond of it for the reason that it made them mistake Meg for a killer. (Sort of the same with Jeff when he decided to wear his metalhead face paint.)

The Legion though, they were personally offended to see her wearing something so similar to their little gang’s aesthetic. Whenever she was in an antagonistic mood, Meg would don the mask and spend entire death matches simply running the current killer around, taunting them when she could and laughing maniacally when they actually caught her, which generally only pissed them off more. Nea and Feng were big fans of the behavior and often joined her. 

“If you got all that pent up energy, why not go for a run?” Bill interrupted her thoughts as the old man sat down next to her with a grunt, presumably returning from a trial. She noticed he was the first one back to the campfire out of his groups, and after spending some time with him in the Fog, she understood why. 

“I already ran,” Meg explained, slowing her hyperactive leg down to a nervous tick. “How come you always sacrifice yourself for everyone else, Bill?”

“Hell of a way to change the subject,” the grizzled man replied with a grunt. “It’s an easy enough answer, kid. I’m old, I’m made for fighting. If I can save any of you a few moments of torment, then I’ll do everything in my power to spare you that fresh hell.”

“And you don’t ever regret it?” Meg hugged her knees to her chest then, searching Overbeck for any tell. 

“My only regret so far is not knowing what happened to the last group of numbskulls I sacrificed myself for,” Bill answered truthfully, avoiding Meg’s gaze in favor of lighting a cigarette on the edge of the fire. “If I’m to believe little Miss Feng Min, they made it out. Now I can only pray that they made it all the way and that they never know what sort of hell is waiting on this side of death.”

“Do you really think we’re dead?” She asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet. Her thought had immediately gone back to her mother and how badly she wished she could be back with her. Bill was right and she agreed, she never wanted anyone else to know the torment of this abode of the damned. 

“I don’t know about everyone else, but I sure as hell remember being torn to bits by more ugly motherfuckers than I could count,” the old man replied with a sigh. A moment passed before he looked to her, old weary eyes addressing her with some sort of softness. “You remind me of one of my buddies from before this. Her name was Zoey, you’re about the same age as her. I think you two would have gotten along pretty damn well.”

Meg smiles in the sort of way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She got to her feet and put a hand on Bill’s shoulder, squeezing in gently in the only display of affection she was comfortable giving to the poor man. “Things have been better since you joined,” she mentioned. “You taught us that sometimes other people come first. We bickered a lot at the beginning, fought about strategies and blamed each other for failures. We’re just a bunch of scared idiots, but you showed us what it means to be a team. I know we give you a lot of shit sometimes, but you mean a lot to us.”

“Aw, save that shit for someone who needs to hear it,” Bill waved the young woman off, taking a long drag of his smoke in the process. But Meg saw he was smiling behind his beard and she counted that as a victory. 

“Fine, fine. I’m going to go on another run, you old fart. Try not to get picked again before I get back!”

“Get going, girl. You’re going to give me diabetes with all that sappy shit.” He patted her hand on his shoulder. 

And with that, she smiled and stooped to steal a hug from him that was more of her bumping against his side than a true embrace. “I’ll be back!”

Pulling the mask down and over her face, Meg sprinted off into the woods, leaving Bill behind to gaze listlessly into the campfire. 

The woods were quiet, only the crunch of decaying leaves under her feet and the occasional caw of a crow broke the silence. She remembered that in the real world, the breeze would filter through the trees and rustle their leaves ever so slightly, there would be squirrels and birds other than the tattletale crows. There wasn't even the dull drone of insects to stifle the constant thrumming of air bouncing against itself. 

And even now, she could hear her heartbeat drum against her chest, a constant reminder of the danger lurking just out of sight. 

But she runs. She runs because that's what she had to do to survive, she runs because that was how she thrived. It felt good to run because she wanted to and not because she _had_ to. 

The ceaseless moonlight filtered down through the ancient oaks, scattering silvery, shapeless luminescence across the deathly still copse. If she hadn't known that it was only a peaceful stretch of hell, she would have thought the surroundings to be beautiful in a concerning, haunted sort of way. 

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly prickled, that instinctual reaction to the sense of being watched by hidden eyes. Meg dared to glance around quickly as she ran, and finding no signs of life, she decided it was a good time to head back to the safety of the campfire. There was no need to turn around or backtrack to find the only safe place in the Fog; things here were different, but made a small amount of sense on a primal level. Fire meant warmth, society and safety, so when you weren't running for your life, you could wish for safety and find yourself at the camp. The Fog did what it wanted for the most part, but it had its laws and rules that it followed for whatever reason. When you followed the rules, things worked. It was like the generators in the death game they played in; powering the generators meant you could open the door, opening the door meant you could live until the next round. 

The world was like that. It existed in predetermined ways. And sometimes it didn’t exist at all. 

She had tried to find her way out of the forest before, but when the trees had thinned, the world had also. It was like the edge of a drawing, all sketched and half-finished, and then it just stopped. There was nothing but Fog. 

There was more out in the Fog, she knew. The arenas were out there somewhere, and she couldn't help but wonder what else could be hidden in the cloudy mists. 

The lingering sense of being watched stayed with Meg until the warm light of the campfire came back into view, she ran towards the pinprick of fire until she stumbled back into the clearing, chest heaving and ears ringing, but unassailed and debatably okay. Those who were present startled in various ways at the sudden appearance of a figure panting heavily behind a mask. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Meg!” Dwight nearly jumped out of his fucking skin, scrambling against the dead leaves while Ash let out a guffaw of laughter. 

“Oh, quiet down, you big baby. You fucking know that the killers don't come to the fire,” Meg brushed him off immediately, she pulled the mask up and grinned wickedly at her compatriots. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“Not much, but It’s about time for a fresh game, so buckle up, buttercup.” Ash gave Dwight a slap on the shoulder, laughing still as the younger man tried to straighten out his tie and his nerves. As much as they teased him, most of them had a soft spot for the jittery errand boy.

Meg kicked back and relaxed against one of the worn logs that laid around the fire, gazing off into it, her breath evening out. Her eyes shut and before she knew it, she was sitting alone in the middle of an endless cornfield.

Ah, _fuck._

The runner got to her feet and pulled her mask down, glancing around quickly to see if anyone else was nearby. She heard nor saw anyone, and feeling rather put off, she threw a braid over her shoulder and stalked off towards the flickering light of a generator yet to be repaired. 

Her hands worked deftly at the mess of wires and loose metal, not bothering to tighten anything further than what she could manage with her fingers. Grease dirtied her fingers before she heard the telltale scream of another human somewhere in the sea of corn, it sounded like Kate. 

She kept her focus on the machine in front of her, twisting a cut pair of wires together and then hissing when a jolt of electricity burnt her fingertips. The static engine fired up an agonizingly slow moment later and Meg sprinted off into the dead crops as another scream tore through the otherwise quiet sky. 

The heartbeat is silent as she jogs cautiously towards the stationary hook that the country star hanged from, the unfortunate woman dangling off the ground and breathing shallowly. 

“I’ve got you,” Meg whispered softly as she grasped Kate by the rib cage and lifted her off the rotten hook, mindful of the flinch she gave along with the whimper of pain. The second Kate’s worn cowboy boots touched the ground, Meg felt the wind knocked out of her as cold metal punctured her chest from behind. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the ground and Kate had run off into the corn in terror. It took her brain a second to process that the scream she heard came from her own mouth.

Dark hands pried the hunting knife loose, drawing out a wrecked sob from the ginger as she lay face down in the dirt, tears and drool running down her face. Her attacker bent down to heave her onto his shoulder, then up onto the hook still dripping with Kate’s blood. When he steps back, she sees the stark white mask of a scream frozen in place, a mockery of his victims. 

The Shroud cocks his head towards her as if greeting her then disappears into the corn, leaving her to hang.

She hadn’t heard the signifying clang of a generator completing repairs during the whole encounter.

It was going to be either a very short or a very long match.

* * *

Bonus Doodle:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think my art looks familiar, no it doesnt :gun:


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep in this realm was a gamble, either he dreamt of nothingness with the Fog pawing incessantly at him, whispering dark secrets in words that were felt, rather than spoken, or he was bombarded with memories of his past, of his father, of the men he had killed.

Sleep was never peaceful, always restless. 

The Nightmare had made the mistake of inserting himself into one of Evan’s night terrors once, when the man had first been brought into the Fog. He had attempted to seize control of the memory of his father and mock him, berate him, beat him like the elder MacMillan often did.

But he could tell an imitation from the real thing. Or rather, the lasting impression his father’s abuse had on him. 

In a way, taking the false memory of Archie MacMillan by the throat and squeezing the life out of him had been cathartic. He hadn’t had the balls to kill his father with his own hands before It took him, and even when the image of his father faded quickly into the visage of a burned man, Evan felt a sense of contentment at the act.

The Nightmare had gotten away. He still lurked at the corners of his unconscious, waiting for an opportunity to slip into his dreams, but he would never find it. 

But what Evan found odd, as he woke briefly up from his restless slumber, is that in between the nothingness and the imaginings of his mother’s death, he saw flashes of sunlight and red hair.

He chased after those ideas in his mind as he slept, stalking after them like he hunted down his prey, but every time he felt the warmth of the sun or caught a flash of blue eyes, it moved just out of his reach once again. 

And how desperately he wanted more of it.

The girl had gotten into his head. 

Sleep came and went, interspersed with nightmares and silent moments spent awake, staring at the false moon. The Fog didn’t call on him for a time, much to his irritation. He stalked his grounds like a caged beast, waiting to be freed, eager for the hunt.

Then finally, It called upon him. 

It was the swamp. They weren't his favorite hunting grounds, but they were far from the worst. Wet mud squelched beneath his feet as he dispersed his traps throughout the reeds, physical memories of fireflies flickered by. 

He found himself looking for a red shock of hair, but only found unwanted faces and disappointment as he impaled each upon the jagged hooks. 

The match ended and he was sent to the next which was met with similar results. Sacrifices he had no interest in were disposed of promptly, each one only adding to his agitation. 

When he had first arrived here, he was reluctant to kill. The deaths he had caused in the living world weighed more heavily on him then, his conscience still breathed. At first, he refused to play this macabre game, standing among the hooks and trees, misshapen cleaver at his feet. The Fog had not taken kindly to his disobedience and now he had the scars to show for it. 

He spared no pity for the souls who stepped into his traps and died upon his hooks, for he had no pity left to give. What little humanity he had left when he was brought here had been quickly stripped away from him, leaving him feeling nothing but pain, rage, and the sick satisfaction of a job well done.

And yet… Here he was, eager for something other than the hunt for once in an eternity.

When the Fog had had its fill for the moment, the Trapper found himself deposited back into his haunting grounds, left to pace until the next time his master would have use of him. 

Evan bristled, grimacing beneath the mask. With nothing else to do, he hid himself away in the storehouse with an armful of bear traps, intending to perform maintenance on the rusting contraptions. Taking a seat next to his tools, he began to pry apart the first trap. A wire brush was useful for cleaning the caked blood and grime from the joints and coils, and in spite of the restless anger brewing idly within him, MacMillan easily lost himself in his work. 

Keeping his hands busy had always soothed his mind.

He tried to remember the last time he had been eager for something other than hunting. Perhaps it was when he realized he could sketch with charcoal on the scatter papers he found in trials. His father had no command over him in this place, he felt no shame when he drew figures on the pages, catching the movements of his prey on paper, memorializing them if only for as long as the sheet persevered. He preferred to draw them as they were in the chase, their faces turned away from him. There was no joy that would come from drawing portraits of the damned. 

But he hesitated over his trap, lowering the serrated edge he had been honing with a file. The desire to draw the woman who had been trailing after him in recent hunts fell upon him like a net, ensnaring him like he had fallen prey to one of his own bear traps.

Evan stares at the iron mechanism in his hands, eyes unfocused behind his mask. 

He sets it down and rises, leaving his work station in favor of finding where he had left his charcoal and paper. 

* * *

After what seemed like forever, they finally found themselves in the Fog together.

Something thrilled within Meg when the darkness in her eyes cleared and she found a misplaced bear trap laying forlornly in front of her, waiting to be opened by a pair of rugged hands. 

_Kinda like me,_ Meg joked to herself with a giddy smirk. Thank fuck no one could read her mind. As far as she knew, anyway.

A generator waited nearby, beckoning to her with the promise of being useful to her team, and already feeling guilty, Meg shuffled over to it and reluctantly stuffed her hands into its predictably sabotaged innards. A few moments pass as she tries her best not to zap herself, then a shriek of pain and a snap of metal tell her that he had caught Nea.

Wincing sympathetically, Meg bent closer to the generator, determined to fix it as quickly as possible. She just needed a few more seconds and… _there!_ The machinery whirred to life with a resounding clang just as Nea’s scream pierced the air again and Meg sprinted off in the direction it came from.

But before she made it to the hook, someone else had rescued the other woman, leaving Meg to reroute towards the nearest generator. She found one situated in the middle of the area they were confined to and jogged quickly over to it, dropped to her knee next to it and began to work. It wasn’t long before another set of yells broke the relative silence, it sounded like Ace had taken a hit before finding another one of the Trapper’s namesakes. 

Exhaling with jittery nerves, Meg berated herself for how badly she wanted to go run after the Trapper and play with him, or at least throw herself in front of him and maybe help Ace, but she couldn't put her own interests before her friends. She wasn’t about to let herself easily die and leave the others one pair of hands behind, this deadly game was hard enough on them all as it was.

Pushing on, Meg Thomas stuffed her hands back into the mouth of the machine, fiddling with the mechanisms she knew needed to be fixed. From somewhere else, the ringing clang of a different generator rang out, announcing its completion. She hoped that it had been Nea’s doing, the fourth member of the team should be going to save Ace.

_Or I could,_ Meg told herself with a frustrated groan. 

Her generator was close to being done, but she wasn’t willing to risk Ace’s death for it. Letting go of the multicolored wires, Meg stood and sprinted off in the direction she knew Ace would be hanging.

It seemed like she had made the correct choice, by the time she reached Ace, no one else was within sight and the evil looking tendrils manifesting around him from the hook were looking incredibly tangible. The older man yelped as Meg hefted his body off of the hook, breathing hard and fast as he braced himself against her. There were no smartass comments or witty one liners, only the scent of blood and sweat. 

She took him by the trembling hand and led him away.

Behind a crumbling wall they crouched, Meg pried the wet fabric away from Ace’s shoulder, the tacky shirt looking a hundred times worse when it was stained with blood and ripped, but not nearly as bad as the poor man gripping her forearm to steady himself.

“I gotcha,” she reassured him with a quick smile, pulling out the roll of bandages that every one of them were afforded when sent into these slaughter games. (There were rules here, again, that she didn’t understand in the slightest, but she wasn’t going to ask questions about things like the magic bandaids in her pockets when she was way more concerned about things like _what the hell is that spider in the sky_ and _what did any of us do to deserve this?)_

The miraculous gauze she had currently in her hands was wrapped hastily around Ace’s chest and shoulder, she applied pressure to the wound on both sides of it, mindful of the basic first aid she had picked up in track and field. Not that it mattered too much in this case, as soon as she had finished winding the length of cloth around him, the bandage disappeared along with the hole that had previously been punched through Ace’s chest cavity like he was a buy-ten-get-one-free card at Jamba Juice. 

Looking way better and filled with more blood now, Ace grinned and gave Meg a grateful pat on the shoulder before he mouthed _‘showtime!’_ and scuttled off towards some previously intended destination. Breathing a little easier now, Meg did the same and worked her way back to the generator she had been on earlier, eyeing each clump of ground clutter with suspicion the whole way. 

She has hardly reached her generator, kicked at some point and in need of more repairs than when she left it, when she heard that awful noise of a trap snapping and with the accompanying scream of a friend. It was Nea again, her crouching around hadn't helped her this time. Before Meg could begin to worry about whether or not she should leave to help, the clang of a generator sounded out, only to be overshadowed by the scream of Feng as she stepped on a bear trap. 

Meg darted off towards Nea’s cry, hoping that Feng could free herself before the Trapper found her. Her wishes were in vain, as she found out quickly. When she ran to Nea’s rescue she made the point of watching for places that traps could be hidden, but as she rounded the corner to see Nea struggling with the metal jaw clamped around her ankle, Meg missed the trap laid at the corner of a ramshackle wall. 

She screamed as pain shot up her leg and paralyzed her for a split second, her body jerked violently in reaction before she fell to her knee, tears already in her eyes. 

" _Meg!"_ Nea exclaimed in agony, choking back her own tears as she watched from only a few yards away. 

“God _damnit!_ ” Meg grit out, finger scrambling against the cold metal, desperately trying to find purchase as the iron teeth bit ever deeper into her. Their plight had taken such a sharp turn that she only realized that her heartbeat was deafening in her ears when the dark figure of the Trapper stalked into view. 

He made no effort to look in her direction, his sight set on the other woman frantically clawing at the bear trap keeping her in place. 

“Leave her alone!” Meg shouted indignantly at him, voice cracking. Still, he refused to acknowledge her and picked up Nea by the neck, ripping her free of the trap in the same movement he used to throw her over his shoulder. Nea shrieked and her screaming only continued when he stabbed her through on a nearby hook without any remorse or emotion at all.

The tears in her eyes didn’t blind Meg from the sight, but try as she might, she couldn't free herself from the trap. 

And the Trapper finally looked to her, the wicked grin of his mask suddenly lookes actually intimidating instead of a humorous novelty. 

He stalked over to her, each footstep heavy in her ears as she stared up at him, grimacing defiantly. 

Without a word, he stooped down and lifted her by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing to him. Kicking and screaming, the Trapper carried her away from Nea and the bloodied bear traps, carrying her further into his strategic territory.

“Let me go _let me go_ **_let me GO!_** ” Meg’s screams of protest meant nothing to him, he didn't bother to acknowledge her until he came to a stop in the middle of his domain and dropped her to the ground without so much as a warning. 

Meg hit the ground on her ass and wailed at the sharp twinge of pain that the movement caused her broken ankle. Before she had any time to comprehend the situation or even berate the killer for his actions, the Trapper turned on his heels and lumbered menacingly away in the way they had come. 

“You stupid asshole!” Meg screamed after him, tears falling from her face as she dug her fingers into the ground and did everything she could to keep herself from sobbing.

As if in response, a trap snapped from somewhere in the distance and Ace screamed out. 

“God _damn i_ _t!”_

All she could do now is crawl helplessly towards her companions as their screams filled the air. It wasn’t long before It came down from the sky and took them all away.

  
She was alone now. With _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh comments appreciated!! give me your thots


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horny ahead! you've been warned 😘

Meg laid her face against the cold ground, tears in her eyes and red in the face as she realized that she was alone with the indomitable serial killer she had a godforsaken crush on. 

Logically, she was almost certain that he was simply saving her for last so he could kill her personally for all the shit she had been putting him through lately, but her awful little dumbass heart hoped desperately that maybe something else would happen. There was a possibility, right?

_ Right?! _

The air stopped trembling at the spider-like legs receded back into the sky, leaving Meg to wait for her heartbeat to return to her eardrums or for the slow demise of bleeding out.

She glared wordlessly at the few crows watching her with little beady eyes.

If only a small amount of debatably good fortune, it wasn't long before the furious pounding of her heart returned along with the hulking form of the Trapper, cleaver clutched tightly in his scarred hand. 

“Oh good, I was afraid you’d forgotten about me,” Meg sassed from the ground, smiling wryly.

As anticipated, the Trapper said nothing. What was surprising though, is that the big lug bent his knee and kneeled next to Meg, the light catching his eyes faintly behind his mask’s narrow holes. 

She stared back at him, daring him to make a move. 

A moment of silent glowering passed by before a deep, gravelly voice spoke, startling Meg. “What do you want from me?”

She was surprised to learn that in spite of all her pleading and begging, all of her rude jeers and dubiously interested comments in the past, that the Trapper was capable of speech.

She gaped dumbly at him for a second before she blinked and answered without thinking, “I'd fucking love it if you’d stop killing me and my friends, honestly.”

He reacted as expected, so not at all.

Meg rubbed her face briefly with a dirty hand, head reeling from what was happening and heart beating out of its cage. “Okay, okay! If that's not on the table, then maybe I don’t know, let me leave this once? Or fuck it, just kill me and get it over with.”

The Trapper responded to her babbling by slamming the head of his cleaver into the ground, heedless of the way it made Meg flinch. With an arm resting on his knee, he leaned forward until he was close enough for her to see the shape of his mouth hidden behind the jagged teeth of his mask.

“You know what I’m asking about, girl,” he rasped, irritation growing audibly. “What do you want from  _ me _ _?” _

His tone was dangerous, but Meg could feel the warmth of his breath as he leaned over her, pressing her for the answer she wasn’t sure she wanted to give. Her eyes wandered over his form, from the thick muscles where his neck met his shoulders, to the deep scars and burnt flesh that covered his hide, and back to the deepest frown she could see lurking behind the dangerous smile of his chosen visage.

“I…” Meg started, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth. “I just, you know… Um, you’re kind of big.”

Her answer to his question didn't satisfy him apparently, because he grabbed her roughly by the chin and tilted her darting gaze back to his face, deathly serious as he addressed her again.

_ “Tell me what you  _ _ want _ _ ,  _ woman. Are you  _ attracted  _ to me?”

Blood of her companions smeared against her jaw where he held her, but Meg couldn't focus for the heat of his touch and the authority of his demand. She was a fucking stupid, awful, horny idiot and she knew it. But… He was asking, right? And he wasn’t  _ taking,  _ which was more than what she could say for so many of the guys she had the misfortune of knowing back in the real world.

Meg glances to the side as red tinges her face and she stutters,“I-I, _um,_ if you weren't trying to fucking kill me, jackass!”

That seems to be enough for the Trapper, for as soon she admits her interest he grabs her by the back of her shirt and hauls her up far enough so he can hold her in place by the upper arms. She stares wide eyed at him, blushing furiously as he looks her over, studying each inch of her. It felt weirdly intimate, being so close to him while still being alive and not bound for a hook.

Her emotions overrode her logical thinking and she blurted out, “Well are you going to kiss me or what?!”

After a split second of shock on his end, the Trapper let out a noise that Meg could only describe as a growl before he yanked her close and smashed the face of his mask against her, kissing her forcefully from behind the rows of smiling teeth. The fangs bit into her skin, but Meg only gasped in surprise before she melted into his touch and kissed him back just as aggressively. 

He tasted like metal and smoke, both his true teeth and his mask’s fangs bit into her skin, but she bit his lip back and laughed thoughtlessly when she drew blood and he grumbled a warning growl. She clung to him and his hands began to wander, hungrily roaming over her body, grabbing tightly at her ass and hips before traveling upwards to cup a breast that was dwarfed easily in his massive hand. Meg felt like she could barely breathe, her heart was pounding so fast. A groan slipped from her throat unbidden while she hung helplessly against him, her arm around his neck and shoulders as they groped each other like a pair of uncontained teens. His pecs were fucking rock solid and Meg thought she was going to legitamately faint from the amount of blood rushing to her head. 

But when his callused hands started to pull up her shirt, reality came crashing back down on Meg’s senses and she gasped as she pushed herself away.

“I _ can’t!”  _ She exclaimed breathlessly despite her hands on his chest, still eager to soak up the heat from his body. 

“Why?” The Trapper asks hoarsely, still holding her close and having the audacity to sound befuddled.

“You’ve  _ killed me,” _ Meg defends herself sharply.

_ “Everyone dies,” _ he responded immediately, his own chest heaving as he struggled to find the oxygen he needed.

“But you don’t have to  _ murder _ me!” She retorts just as quickly, furious now even though she was convinced she had leaked through her pants. 

The Trapper’s demeanor suddenly turned dark, he leaned in close until his mask was nearly pressed against Meg’s face. “I  _ do _ ,” he whispered, deep voice dangerous as he added cryptically, “There are fates worse than death.”

A shudder trickled up her back and confusion flashed across her face, Meg regarded him with open bewilderment, only to let out a yell as he suddenly pushed himself to his feet and brought her with him. Instead of his usual habit of throwing her over his shoulder, the Trapper held her in his arms bridal style, saying nothing as he began to walk heavily (and a bit stiffly, she noticed) in his chosen direction.

“What are you doing?” Meg asked, suddenly and visibly unnerved.

“If we're done here, I’m letting you go,” he answered gruffly, disgruntled but sparing a glance down at the flustered woman in his arms. “I might be a monster, but I am not  _ that  _ breed of monster.”

A fresh wave of red flares up in Meg’s face and she can only manage to gape at the boney visage. 

He doesn't bother to explain himself further as he trudged along, the crows that had been hovering above now losing interest knowing that Meg wasn’t about to die anytime soon.

“What are you?” She asks without warning, boldly placing a hand on his breast.

“You’re curious,” he states, rather than questions. There was no effort to look at her as he searched the nearby area for the escape hatch. “I was a man once.”

“ _ ‘Once’? _ ” Meg repeats, frowning at him. She couldn't help but stare, she’d never seen him like this before. Blood and grime painted his form, that much she had noticed before, but now she could properly study the way his skin was cracked like parched soil and how his overalls were held up by an array of metal hooks embedded in his flesh.

_ That can’t be comfortable?! _

“Once,” the Trapper says again, still avoiding elaboration. “Your name is Meg.”

Meg jolted slightly in his arms when he called her by her name, stunned out of staring at what little of his jawline she could see at this angle. Honestly, she shouldn't have been so shocked, they (her and her friends) often screamed each other's names during the trials. “Yuh-yeah. Meg Thomas.”

“Meg Thomas,” he said her name like he was tasting it as it left his mouth. After some deliberation, he grumbled back, “Evan MacMillan.”

It was so fucking strange to find out he had a real name.

“We call you the Trapper,” she explains without being asked, her fingers curling around the edge of his thick overalls. That earned her his full attention and he came to a sudden halt, the blank face of his mask staring down at her with what felt like judgement.

“You told me you didn’t want to  _ engage, _ ” he growled the word at her, challenging her intentions.

Meg, feeling both pale and flushed at the same time, quickly let go of his clothes and lifted her hands in surrender, lips pursed as she prayed he wasn't about to drop her. “Sorry, sorry! But I  _ do,  _ maybe,” she adds hastily.

“You’re not making any sense,” he accuses with a glare, slowly beginning to walk forward again.

“I need some time to think about it, okay?” Meg covers her face with her balled up fists, wanting nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die. Which wasn't out of the realm of possibility these days.

“You’re afraid of me,” Evan guessed bluntly.

“ _ No! _ I mean, yes, sort of-- But not as much as I should be!” Meg dragged her hands down her face and continued to pointedly not think about how badly her ankle was throbbing or how stupid she must seem right now. Part of her wanted to be honest with him about how she couldn't do something like fuck around with him when he routinely murdered her friends, but the other part of her brain that preferred to not be so open about her thoughts and feelings took precidence and kept her mouth closed shut about it.

“I just need some time to think,” she admits in defeat.

The Trapper--  _ Evan--  _ lets out a deep snort that could have been a laugh. “And yet you’re a shameless coquette in my presence.”

“Oh no,” Meg replied with a lopsided grin, “I definitely feel shame.”

It’s then that she realized that he had stopped moving at some point and that the ghostly sigh of the hatch was emanating from the ground before them. Understanding that her time with him was short, Meg turned to face him sharply, eyes ablaze with determination.

“I think it’s obvious by now, but I think you're hot. Like, incredibly fucking sexy. For some reason I think the stupid way you grunt is adorable. I have no doubt that you could kill me with your thighs if you really wanted to,” Meg blabbered as she ran her hand up his chest because  _ god  _ she just wanted to touch him. “I super want to fuck you, but I also have a conscious and this is a really fucking weird position for me to be in, okay? So give me some time to figure this out, and if you want to make this easier for me, maybe stop killing me and my friends, yeah?”

The Trapper watched her unblinkingly, allowing her to word vomit while he took her light groping as permission to cop a feel of her inner thigh and smiling beneath his mask when that pretty red blush flared up across her face again.

“You’re asking me to put the lives of strangers before my own,” Evan grumbles deeply, earning a perplexed look from Meg. 

“What do you mean? And I know it’s human nature to put yourself first, but like, come on! You don't seriously  _ like  _ killing people, do you? I know you’re like a serial killer and that’s a really fucking stupid question, but  _ please _ tell me you’re not doing this because you want to!”

“Good people don't go to hell,” he answers plainly, taking a knee to lower Meg onto the ground in front of the hatch. He was bafflingly gentle. “I don’t always enjoy it. Sometimes I do. It doesn’t matter either way. If I don’t do it, something else will.”

Meg didn't know what to say to that and she found herself mentally tripping over his words. The Trapper still held her in his arms, hesitant to let her go. Without warning, he dipped his head low and buried the face of his mask in the crook of her neck, kissing her bare skin with his lips and fangs. She couldn't help but turn to jello and let out an embarrassing moan, gripping onto his torso for dear life. 

“Oh  _ god,” _ she whines, seeing nothing but feeling more than she ever thought she could. Meg can feel him smirking against her throat before he straightens up and smirks down at her, breathing just as heavily as she was.

“I’ll be waiting,” he tells her shortly, then drops her without warning into the hatch. 

Meg wakes up at the campfire with a furious blush and more dampness between her legs than she bargained for.

_ Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think it's really funny that i'm writing like 1k words a day for this when I have another fic that is so old it mentions old Ruin LMAOOO

**Author's Note:**

> This ship means a lot to me for some stupid reason, I hope if you're reading this that you enjoy them as well. I wish there was more content of these two, but as a domestic/sexual abuse survivor, a lot of DbD's fanworks are absolutely appalling to me. I hope that there's other fans who like this sort of thing without making it disrespectful to other survivors, and if you're one of them then I'm glad you're here.
> 
> I don't have a post schedule currently, but I hope to update this every week or at least Occasionally™. Thank you for reading this far and I'm so sorry that my writing is a mess. Big thanks to my two sexy GFs for beta reading this for me.
> 
> Trigger Warnings! For future chapters, obviously.  
> \- lots of cussing, gendered slurs  
> \- reproductive talk  
> \- obviously a lot of violence  
> \- if there is any mention sexual violence, I will not be going into detail, will not portray it in a positive light, and I refuse to entertain the idea of it being a good thing under any circumstance. I don't have any plans currently other than maybe mentioning that Clown and Freddy are nasty little men  
> \- there will be mentions of both spousal and child abuse due to both Evan's Father and the existence of Freddy


End file.
